


The Pizza Man and the Babysitter

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Always Absent John, Babysitter Dean, Brotherly Bonding, Conventions, Cosplay, Costumes, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fanboy Cas, Fanboy Sam, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Moondoor (Supernatural), Openly Bisexual Dean, Pizza Man Castiel, Television Watching, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, attempt at plot, fanboy dean, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-25 00:36:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4939933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were about a quarter of the way through the two-liter bottle when the doorbell rang. Dean padded to the entryway and opened the door, eager to get his hands on a New York-style pizza. </p><p>What his eyes welcomed was something far more delectable. </p><p>Standing behind the screen door was a boy, no more than a couple years older than his fifteen, with mussed dark hair, analogous to a sluiced cat’s pelt, and a pair of eyes like ripe blueberries waiting to be picked. He had extra growth around his chapped pink lips and kempt sideburns and an athlete’s body he kept chained to a red sweater vest and ball-hugging jeans. His ID tag read Castiel. “Large deep-dish pepperoni?” </p><p>Or the one where Castiel is a pizza man who drops off more than just pizza.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pizza Man and the Babysitter

**Author's Note:**

> This happened after a sinus fever and in-between a Princess Bride marathon on BBC.

“ _Please,_ Dean _…”_

“Sammy, you know we can’t. Dad’ll throw my ass into the Pit.”

The big brunette (big compared to most eleven-year-olds, at least) bounced on his knee. “Ha! You owe a nickel to the swear jar. Now you _have_ to let me watch an episode.”

“Oh, please, you curse more than I do!” He was also gonna say that’s not how it works, but alas Sam with those big brown eyes and that stiff, pouty lip was the chink in his armor, ergo getting his little brother what he wanted. “Alright, _one_ episode and then you’re going to bed. And if you breathe a word of this to Dad—”

“You’ll rip my lungs out, I know,” Sam finished without skipping a beat.

Dean blew an exasperated sigh, then plotted over to the television, promptly pulling out the box set with a bunch of ancient runes inscribed around a bare black tree and a Princess Bride-style text overlay that said _Moondoor_. Moondoor was a crossover of Game of Thrones and the Tutors if there ever was one—all the medieval blood, gore, action, and hardcore sex packed into a forty-minute show.

John considered Dean old enough to handle boobs, blowjobs and beheadings (sometimes at the same time!); it was Sam whose innocence he wanted to preserve, which Dean couldn’t really challenge. But Dean’s skin wasn’t as tough as his father’s. While he wanted to keep Sam a kid for as long as he could (God knows when his mother was ripped away from him all those years ago, so went his incorruptibility), he also wanted to indulge him. If Sam loved something, then what kind of brother would he be to deny him?

“Coke or Mountain Dew?” Sam called from the kitchen.

Dean scoffed dropping the disc in, “If we’re gonna do this we’re gonna do it right.”

Sam came back with Cherry Coke and two red solo cups. Dean sat back and propped his feet up on the coffee table, watching as Sam poured in their respective drinks, the froth ascending the rim like a laundry machine bogged down with detergent, and Sam did the same. The two had a running game: take a “shot” each time Carrie Heinlein, the Queen of Moondoor, seduces Gilda, a faerie hitherto kept prisoner by the Shadow Orcs.

They were about a quarter of the way through the two-liter bottle when the doorbell rang. Dean padded to the entryway and opened the door, eager to get his hands on a New York-style pizza.

What his eyes welcomed was something far more delectable.

Standing behind the screen door was a boy, no more than a couple years older than his fifteen, with mussed dark hair, analogous to a sluiced cat’s pelt, and a pair of eyes like ripe blueberries waiting to be picked. He had extra growth around his chapped pink lips and kempt sideburns and an athlete’s body he kept chained to a red sweater vest and ball-hugging jeans. His ID tag read Castiel. “Large deep-dish pepperoni?”

Holy mother of garlic crust, the guy had a _voice_ on him. He half-expected to start hearing the Monday Night Raw theme playing in the background. Then he remembered he had quality entertainment behind him. “Right, um—” Dean fished out the Lincolns his dad left him from his back pocket. “Fifteen cover it?”

“It should if you’re aiming for a generous tip,” Castiel replied, blushing the color of his sweater.

“Well I aim to please,” Dean tried suggestively, handing him the cash.

Castiel tossed him something that looked unmistakably like a wink. “Well you succeed.” Dean blushed too.

“I’m starting without you!”

“Never thought I’d hear that from my little brother’s mouth,” Dean shouted back. Sam muttered something like _“Unbelievable”._ Dean gave the attractive delivery boy an apologetic smile. “Sorry, siblings.”

Castiel chuckled, a sound akin to loose change rattling in a homeless man’s cup. “Is it just you two?”

“Yeah, our dad’s out of town for a week, so I’m stuck with his lame ass.”

“Cough up the copper, jerk!”

Dean rolled his eyes as he accepted his order. Castiel grinned as he said, “Try living with five more.” Dean whistled low. He was about to retort something relevant like ‘My condolences,’ when Castiel’s gaze shifted behind him to the television. “Is that Moondoor?”

Dean leaned against the doorframe, impressed. “You a fan?”

“If by fan you mean own every season on Blu-ray and digital _and_ attend the Cons, then I’d say yes.”

“They have _conventions_ for Moondoor?”

Castiel’s mouth hung agape. “Only the best in the state!” he gushed. “I met Charlie Bradbury last year.” Dean blinked disbelievingly. Charlie Bradbury was _the_ beautiful Carrie Heinlein, Queen of freaking Moondoor.

“What the hell are you doing outside? C’mon in, dude!”

“I don’t even know your name!” Castiel laughed glibly. “Plus, I have another run to make before I get off.”

Dean pushed back the thought of Castiel getting off as he said, “Cas, man, you’re killing me here! It’s Dean. Dean Winchester. Now that that’s out of the way, make your last delivery and haul ass back here.”

“How did you—?” Newly christened Cas closed his eyes as his face scrunched, mortified to the bone. “My nametag, right.”

“Castiel’s a bit of a mouthful,” Dean said, explaining himself to lessen the awkwardness, “so I shortened it.” Cas’s frown was replaced with a big gummy smile as he lent out his hand.

“I understand. Nice to officially meet you, _Dean,”_ he said, trying out his name. Dean liked hearing it coming from his mouth. “So you’ll see me in ten minutes?”

Dean pointed an accusing finger. “I better.” Cas nodded before scampering down the porch, rubbing absently at his flushed neck as he went. Dean saw him all the way out to his Prius before Sam thwacked him in the back of the head with an empty cup, effectively nabbing his attention.

“Stop pining over the pizza guy and start drinking.”

Dean’s lips twisted into a smile. “Now that’s something I can get behind,” he said. He may or may not have been thinking of Cas as he did so.

***

With his newfound guest of honor, one episode quickly turned into four, then five, six… Dean lost track with said guest mere inches from him, somehow looking even more enticing with the map of Moondoor spilling over his face when the credits rolled. Sam, to his all-too obvious chagrin, stalked off to bed around ten to nine, leaving it Dean’s sole responsibility to entertain Cas.

It was during a scene that left Carrie and Gilda in rather uncompromising positions—that is before the Queen’s handmaiden walks in on them _doing the time warp_ —that Dean piped up, “I have that costume.”

Cas looked like he just received word that his kingdom got barraged by the Shadow Orcs. “You own the handmaiden’s uniform?”

“Yeah!” Dean exclaimed before clearing his throat. “I mean… I can show it to you, if you want to see it.”

Cas’s face cleared up, revealing a small, dimpled smile. “Sure.”

With that, Dean scuttled down the hallway into his room, which actually looked more like his previous comparison to Cas’s gobsmacked expression. Clothes were strewn in uncoordinated heaps across the floor, his twin bed was passable overlooking the black comforter drooping over the mattress, and everything else that wasn’t his guitar or Polaroids of his mom and Sammy were lost in the jungle of junk. It’s a miracle he found the costume, where it was tucked in the furthest corner of his closet for safekeeping.

He took off his clothes like a snake shedding its skin—one swift slinking motion and he was free from the confines of wonted wear. Years of walking Sam to the bus stop in nothing but sweatpants and a thin tank top then having to come home with little less than twenty minutes to eat, shower, and grab his things would remedy his naturally lethargic pace. Then he slipped carefully into the costume, careful not to rattle the chainmail as he sauntered out of his room.

Personally, Dean was proud of the get-up. In fact, he practically _preened_ over the fact that he owned such a thing, but the fact that he was showing it off to someone other than Sam (who, despite his penchant to call Dean a nerd, thought it was pretty dope) had him shying away as he returned to the living room.   

One thing he learns about Cas that night is that he can crack eggs with his stare alone. Luckily, he chose to crack an approving smile instead, leaving Dean’s face muscles loose enough to smile back.

Cas ended up falling asleep sometime later that night and Dean has half a mind to slot their lips ever-so lightly. The last thing he wants to be is the asshole that rouses him from a goodnight’s sleep. So rather than recreating the torrential rain scene from The Notebook, he leans forward until he’s barely hovering over him, mouths just atoms apart, and presses his lips—and when he says presses, he means like a cloth dabbing an open wound—to the seam of his lower. His lips are chapped, yes, but way too warm to be real.

So it’s an understatement to say he’s surprised when he feels a set of fingers curl around his wrist, pulling him down like an anchor into Cas’s lap because _holy crap he’s kissing back._ He’d kick himself later for doing exactly what he was trying to avoid, but for now, all he knew and felt and tasted was Castiel, the pizza guy.

***

Six months following their little rendezvous, Dean and Cas attend Moondoor Con 2016 hand in hand, Cas as the unofficial “King” of Moondoor and Dean as his handmaiden, leaving Charlie Bradbury the one to fangirl over _them_ in the middle of the hallway: “Don’t. Move. I need to get my camera.”


End file.
